


Shifting Sands

by skatzaa



Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, F/M, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22051735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: There’s a rumor, ‘round about Skarmouth, that the horses aren’t the only thing the Scorpio sea spits up every fall. They say there’s also a boy who stumbles onto the sand with a face as sharp as broken glass. A man who dances with the mare goddess, blood smeared on his face, a living sacrifice to the sea.They say there’s a riderless red horse that paces the beach on the first day of November. Acapallthat runs to remind Thisby what the races are really about.
Relationships: Puck Connolly/Sean Kendrick
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	Shifting Sands

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! This is an old one that I dug up and dusted off in celebration of the end of the decade. It's largely inspired by the fact that Maggie said she could never work in the shapeshifting aspect of the _capaill_ myth, and I thought well, my story doesn't have to make as much sense as Maggie's does, so I may as well try it out!
> 
> Marking this as incomplete because it's only about half the story that I wanted to write. I can't make any promises about finishing it (we've seen how that goes in the past), but I do hope to one day write the rest of this story.
> 
> Betaed only by myself, so sorry for any issues.

PUCK

There’s a rumor, ‘round about Skarmouth, that the horses aren’t the only thing the Scorpio sea spits up every fall. They say there’s also a boy who stumbles onto the sand with a face as sharp as broken glass. A man who dances with the mare goddess, blood smeared on his face, a living sacrifice to the sea.

They say there’s a riderless red horse that paces the beach on the first day of November. A  _ capall _ that runs to remind Thisby what the races are really about.

Mum and Dad never held with the races, but that didn’t stop the  _ capaill _ from taking them, and it doesn’t stop the sea from spitting up a blood red horse the day Finn and I race to the beach for the first time in a year.

*

It doesn’t run past us.

Against everything we’ve ever been taught, the red  _ capall _ tears itself from the sea and heads straight for us, though we’re still and silent, hidden behind what little protection the Morris’s iron frame provides.

We are statues, but the  _ capall _ doesn’t stop.

I wait until I am sure, until I see its square pupils blown wide, a hunk of flesh still caught between two deadly sharp teeth. I wait until I can smell the deep ocean rot rolling off of it, then I shove Finn into the Morris.

I hear his head hit the edge of the roof but there’s no time to apologize. I thrust Dove’s reins after him and perform the fastest dismount of my life. The red  _ capall  _ is circling the Morris, clucking. It makes the hair on my arms raise, but I move farther away from the Morris anyway. Finn starts to make a noise, but a wave of my hand stops him.

There’s a rumor, ‘round about Skarmouth, that there’s a  _ capall _ who can turn into a man, or maybe it’s the other way around. Some think he’s a forgotten ocean god, some think he’s the devil. Father Mooneyham doesn’t believe he exists, but that doesn’t stop the whispers.

The red  _ capall _ circles and clucks.

Possessed by some urge that I can’t possibly understand, let alone articulate, I cluck back.

The  _ capall _ stops walking and that’s worse, because it means I have its full attention. Its ears are pricked and its neck arched, head turned slightly to look at me with one eye, but this is not a curious island pony. This is a creature that won’t hesitate to eat me.

I think of my parents, together on the boat that day. Did they see that  _ capall _ that killed them before it capsized them?

The red  _ capall _ pulls back its lips in a ghastly imitation of a smile. I shudder, but don’t move. If it decides to eat me, the stretch of sand between us will only delay my fate for a heartbeat, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.

The water horse tosses its head in a way that would be playful if it was Dove. The sea shushes me.

A gunshot cracks through the air.

The  _ capall _ rears back and screams, a sound that makes me want to cover my ears. But I remain still.

A second gunshot makes the horse scream again, but it’s a scream of anger and frustration, not blood and pain. It hasn’t been shot. Instead, it gallops past us in the direction of the chalk cliff.

My heart is pounding in my chest and I want nothing more than to collapse to the sand and cry, but I turn and check on Finn and Dove. Dove is shuddering but unharmed, ears pinned flat to her neck. Finn will have a bump on his head from when I pushed him and his eyes are wide in his face. I pull him into a hug and hold him until both of our hearts calm some.

Once I’m relatively sure neither of us is going to start crying, I let him go and take Dove’s reins. The leather has left imprints in Finn’s hand.

Then I look for the person who probably saved our lives.

Standing on the path up the cliff is Ian Privett, who has won more races than not over the last five years, a shotgun in hand. Behind him is Brian Carroll, a boy I went to school with who has grown into another fisherman of the island.

I raise a hand in thanks and Ian Privett nods back. He starts up the path to Skarmouth. Brian hesitates for a moment, like he’s considering coming to speak with us, but he then follows Ian Privett. I’m glad, because I don’t think I could speak with him without bursting into tears.

I turn to Finn and say, “Let’s go home.”

*

Gabe is leaving, I told him I was racing, and I don’t know which shocks me more. So I try not to think about either as the night wears into morning and I find myself unable to sleep.

Bleary eyed and irritable, I head down to the beach the next morning to find myself a horse, but I can’t stop remembering the red  _ capall _ ’s terrible smile.

It turns out no one will agree to fifths with me anyway, so it doesn’t seem to matter how I feel about it.

Around midday, I find an out-of-the-way boulder to fume on, because I still don’t have a horse and I forgot to bring anything to eat. At least I didn’t allow Finn to come with me, no matter how much he wanted to. It will be a long time before I forget how afraid he was yesterday, and I don’t want to put him through that again so soon.

As I sit, I watch the men, who are foolish and brave, and the horses, which are terrifying and alluring. They cluck and scream, entirely unlike normal horses.

One horse—a black mare, with Tommy Falk perched on her back like a porcelain doll—lunges for the ocean, and I watch him try to get her under control, but the reins against her neck and the bit in her mouth mean nothing.

It is only the beginning of October; how sea-mad will they be on race day?

Tommy’s mare brings him closer and closer to the water, and no one stops him. They can’t: everyone is busy ensuring their own mounts don’t take them either.

I am halfway to standing—though there’s nothing I can do from this far away, and even if I was closer I would be useless—when a man appears before Tommy and his mare. All I can tell from here is that he’s small and dark-haired, but when he reaches up and touches the mare’s neck, she calms. I can hardly breathe as he leads her away from the sea with nothing but his skin on hers, though the magic in her blood should be irresistible to him. 

Tommy is an afterthought to both of them.

The rest of the beach seems to notice what’s going on then, because they crowd closer to the spectacle. I have to stand, even perched as I am on my boulder, to be able to see over their heads. I can’t hear over the wind and the sea but I think they’re calling questions to Tommy and the man. None of the men get close to the one who saved Tommy, and they let him slide through the crowd unbothered.

I’m so busy watching him that I don’t realize he is walking in my direction until he is right in front of my boulder.

Up close, his face is so angular it’s almost too harsh to look at. His clothes are worn and out of date and just slightly too large for him, like they belonged to someone else before, which is a concept I am dearly familiar with. I’ve never seen him before, and on an island as small as Thisby, that’s cause for suspicion rather than intrigue.

“Kate Connolly?” he asks. I nod. I want to ask how he knows my name. “If you come back at sundown, I think I have the perfect  _ capall _ for you.”

An offer like that from a strange man should send me running in the opposite direction as fast as I can go, but I find myself hopping down to the sand and saying, “Alright. What’s your name?”

The man flattens his eyes, like he’s pleased I agreed. “I’m Sean.”

I try to ask, “Are you interested in fifths?” but he shakes his head before I even finish the sentence.

“Just be here by sundown. Please.” He adds the please like an afterthought, as if he isn’t used to being polite, which is also something I can understand. I can’t tell if I should feel cross because he wasn’t polite in the first place or because he felt he had to be.

Sean turns and begins picking his way across the sand. Suddenly, it’s very important that I ask, “Does the horse have a name?”

He glances back over his left shoulder and looks as though he’s nearly smiling.

“Corr.”

*

I don’t tell Finn where I’m going that evening, and Gabe isn’t home to ask why I’m leaving so late. Before I leave, I pocket a few coins, in case Corr doesn’t eat me and I go to Gratton’s to put our names on the board.

Skarmouth is bright and rowdy already, so I skirt the town on my way to the beach, feeling like a little girl trying to escape the prying eyes of a disapproving aunt.

The sands are deserted. I stand at the foot of the path and watch the water. This far up the beach, the sand is still a mess from the morning’s training, but the rest is smooth from the tide.

The sea shushes me, but I don’t want to make the mistake of trusting it. If a horse makes landfall, I have a better chance of surviving where I am. Not much better, but enough to maybe make a difference, if I’m lucky. 

A clatter comes from my right and I turn on instinct.

It’s Sean, a bridle over one shoulder and a saddle on the opposite arm. There’s no horse with him.

I raise a hand in greeting and then drop it, wishing I hadn’t, because his gaze is on his feet as he makes his way through the loose stones that mark the edge of usable beach, which means he doesn’t see me.

Once he is on sand he looks up and says, “Kate Connolly!” which is somehow a greeting on its own, but not disapproving the way most people are when they start a conversation with my whole name. I raise my hand again.

When he’s a few feet away he places the saddle down and lays the bridle over it. Now that I’m not distracted by the chaos of this morning, I realize Sean can’t be much older than I am.

Sean holds my gaze, the distant lights from Skarmouth highlighting the intense angles of his face.

“Where’s Corr?” I ask.

He’s quiet for another moment, like he’s trying to come to a decision. Then he asks, “Do you trust me?”

I should immediately answer a question like that with a firm  _ no _ and walk very quickly in the opposite direction. That’s what anyone on this island would tell me to do; it’s what my brothers, my  _ parents  _ would tell me to do. All I know of him is his first name and the fact that he can’t be swayed by the magic of the water horses, but it’s enough for me to say, “Yes.”

“Please close your eyes.”

I should turn and run until I get to Gratton’s or Fathom & Sons or the Black Eyed Girl, somewhere safe and far away from strange men on beaches. That’s what my brothers would want me to do. Under no circumstances should I close my eyes around this stranger, especially not on the beach, where a  _ capall _ could be out of the water before I had time to open them again. 

I close my eyes.

For several minutes, all I can hear is the shushing of the sea and a strange rustling noise that must be coming from Sean, though I can’t imagine what he’s doing. All he brought with him was the saddle and bridle, neither of which would make such sounds.

The longer I stand there the more convinced I become that Sean has left me here as a joke and the rustling was his feet in the sand. I nearly open my eyes, already annoyed with both him and myself.

Something nudges my arm. I open my eyes and go very, very still.

Standing before me is the red  _ capall _ from yesterday, head and neck outstretched, its deadly teeth only inches from my forearm.

Slowly, so as not to spook the horse, I look around. Sean is nowhere in sight, but there is a pile of familiar, neatly folded clothes by the horse’s front hooves.

There’s a rumor, ‘round about Skarmouth.

The horse clucks. After a heart-stopping moment, I cluck back.

“Corr?” I say, lifting my hand slightly.

Corr pulls his lips back in a terrible imitation of a smile.

I want nothing more than to run screaming from the creature before me, but that would be a bad idea for several reasons. Instead, I make my hand smooth the hair along the curve of his cheek, down the length of his neck. Corr’s eyes are half closed but I don’t let myself relax.

The magic in his blood runs across my skin, making me shiver. I am both terrified and exhilarated, and the combination is intoxicating.

Moving so I never let Corr out of my sight, I reach for the tack lying in the sand. It’s the work of a few moments to slip the bridle over his nose and ears, making sure that the bit is settled properly between his teeth. The saddle takes a little longer, if only because he’s much taller than Dove, and I can’t quite lift the saddle high enough to set it on his withers. 

Through it all, Corr stands unnaturally still, one ear always tilted toward the ocean. 

Finally, when I’m satisfied that the girth won’t slip, I take the reins and lead him toward the closest boulder. It’s the same one I was perched on this morning, and it’s shaped in a way that makes it easy for me to mount up, despite Corr’s massive size.

Upon his back, I feel I must look more like a porcelain doll than Tommy Falk did today. Corr is huge, bigger than most of the  _ capaill _ I saw on the beach this morning and so, so much bigger than Dove. I am nothing to him, and we both know it. If he decides to lunge for the sea, he will take me with him.

I nudge him until he swings around and we’re facing the far end of the beach, where the cliffs have crumbled into piles of chalky boulders. The sea is creeping further up the sands, but we have enough time to take him down the beach at least once. Just so I can see how fast he is, how well I’m able to handle him.

Corr shifts beneath me, his right ear still tilted toward the ocean. When I click my tongue, his left ear tilts back toward me, but he doesn’t move. I click my tongue again and squeeze with my knees, but still, he doesn’t move.

Feeling more than a little stupid, I lean forward ever so slightly and ask him to move.

Instantly, he shoots forward, already angling for the water. He curves around my leg when I press him away from it, and so we track in a mostly straight line down to the end of the usable beach, my hair pulling out of its ponytail and whipping me in the face. We reach the end before I’ve hardly processed what’s happened, his canter breathlessly fast.

He turns away from the sea with some obstinance, but he doesn’t actually fight me, for which I am very grateful. I don’t think I could stop him if I tried.

This time, I’m slightly better prepared for his speed, so after I ask him to move again, I push him further, pressing him into a gallop. His hooves eat up the sand and he angles, again, for the ocean. I keep his reins short and press him away; he pins his ears, but obeys me.

He wants the sea, with a deep hunger I can feel in my bones. I pull my wrist away from his neck and the feeling fades, if only a little. 

And then we are back to where we started, throwing sand on Sean’s clothes and tearing down toward the cove, where the sand becomes more rocky and more dangerous.

Heart in my throat, I ask him to slow down. There’s tension in the reins as he resists me at first, but I persist and, finally, he drops into a canter, and then a walk. 

Trembling, I turn him back toward the beach path.

*

Later, after I’ve untacked Corr, I stand at the foot of the cliffs and close my eyes, trusting the monster I just rode won’t turn on me.

My whole body is shaking. I grew up on the back of Dove, my horse, but no island horse could ever compare to riding Corr just now.

It felt as though we were flying, and I hate myself for it, but I want to experience it again and again.

I open my eyes when I hear Sean say, “Kate.”

All he has on at the moment are his pants, so I get the full view of his pale, lean chest. His ribs are more visible than I would have expected and he has several long scars across his torso.

“Call me Puck,” I tell him.

Sean studies me for a moment, his expression indecipherable. Then: “Puck Connolly. Alright.”

Something about the way he says my name, like it’s heavy on his tongue and important enough not to rush, makes me feel warm and just a bit flustered.

I should not trust a man who belongs to the sea, who is probably more  _ capall _ than human, and yet I ask, “Will you come with me to sign up?”

Sean tilts his head back and contemplates what little we can see of Skarmouth from here, the faint lights sliding over the planes of his face. 

I feel as though I am holding my breath, though I can taste salt on my tongue with every inhale, and I try to tell myself that it doesn’t matter what he decides.

“Yes,” Sean says, “I think I will.”

I squash the warmth that elicits and wait until he finishes dressing before starting up the path. Sean catches up quickly, and together we walk in comfortable silence to Skarmouth. I hold out a hand and Sean gives me the bridle to carry.

Something occurs to me as we step between the first few buildings that line the road to the beach. Unsure, I ask, “I won’t have to stable, um, Corr, will I?”

I can’t imagine putting a murderous water horse in the little run in with Dove, even one that can turn into a man. It’s only slightly more terrifying of an idea than trying to house a man who can turn into a murderous water horse. 

Either way, I’m too relieved to be offended when Sean starts laughing. It’s a small, restrained thing, but it’s enough to let me laugh too, and it’s maybe a little hysterical, but given the past two days I think it can be forgiven.

It seems like every eye in Thisby focuses on us the moment we step into Gratton’s, still clinging to the last wisps of laughter. I become painfully aware of all the sand on us, and how my wind-tangled ponytail and Sean’s untucked shirt must look. I’ll be the talk of the island by tomorrow: Puck Connolly, sneaking off to the beach with the mysterious stranger who can stop  _ capaill _ with the touch of his hand.

Sean touches my elbow with the tips of his fingers for a moment. We join the line and the noise picks up again, though it’s louder now and at least half of the conversations nearby are about us.

“Kate Connolly!” A man yells, and it’s definitely disapproving. I look over my shoulder and see an older fisherman whose name I can’t remember. He was a friend of my dad I think. “Who’s your friend?”

Sean half turns so he can smile at the man, and it’s too similar to the way Corr grins, nothing at all like the little half smile he gave me earlier. The sight makes me feel uneasy, and I only barely resist the urge to step back. The man must feel similarly, because his disapproval drops into something less rehearsed and more genuinely afraid.

“I’m Sean,” he says simply. There’s no threat in his voice, but the man still turns back to his friends with unusual speed. 

I try not to listen to the men around us as the line slowly shuffles forward. I’m the only girl here, discounting Peg Gratton, who’s only here because she owns the shop with her husband. Surely, there are other women racing? But as we continue to move, I don’t see a single woman’s name on the board.

We reach the counter and Peg practically turns white when she sees Sean, who nods respectfully as if they know each other. Peg looks at me.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. It’s impossible to tell which of us she’s addressing, but Sean doesn’t look as though he’s about to answer her, regardless.

I hesitate. This is my chance to back out, to say nothing and act like I never even considered riding. Sean takes my elbow again and rubs a tiny circle with his thumb. I have no idea how I feel it through the thick wool of my sweater, but I do. Though he, logically, can’t have any of Corr’s alluring magic, I still find his touch grounding.

“I’d like to enter the races,” I say.

Everyone is looking at me again, or so it seems. This time, the weight of their gazes feels more hostile than curious.

“Your brother told me not to let you,” Peg says. She means Gabe, of course, which seems desperately unfair, when there’s no one to stop him from leaving.

“May we see the rules?” When Sean speaks, Peg flinches, corners of her mouth turning down slightly, but she hands me a folded and stained sheet of paper anyway. Who is Sean to her that he can inspire such a reaction? 

But I know I’ll get no answers from either of them, especially not here, so I turn my eyes to the page.

There are no rules against me racing, either as a girl or on a horse that can apparently turn into a man. I fold up the paper and place it in my pocket.

“I would still like to sign up.”

Peg sighs and turns away, picking up a small piece of chalk. “What’s your horse’s name?”

I look at Sean and he looks back. His bridle hangs heavy on my shoulder.

“Corr,” I say, and don’t break eye contact with Sean until I have to dig the coins out of my pockets. The amount is enough to make me hesitate again, but I hand it over to Peg anyway, because if Corr and I don’t win, this money will be the least of my worries.

“Well,” Peg says, and I can’t tell if her tone is reluctant or impressed despite herself, “congratulations. You’re official.”

I look at my name more than halfway down the board, and next to it,  _ Corr. _

I’m official.

As we step out of the shop and into the night, I realize I’m more exhilarated than afraid. I should be ashamed of that, but I’m not.

I can taste the sea on the air. Next to me, Sean shivers.

*

Sean and I meet before dawn on the second day of training. The sand is smooth and the sea is high on the beach still. I don’t know if I should watch the water or Sean; both make me uneasy, but there’s a sharp edge to Sean’s movements today that wasn’t there yesterday. I wonder if the sea is calling him already, if the sea still calls to the man as much as it calls to the horse.

We don’t have any tack today, just a lead line and a lunge whip with red leather tied to the end. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved that I won’t be riding.

Sean paces the beach for several minutes. There’s not enough room down here to lunge a horse Dove’s size, let alone Corr, whose stride will eat up the sand like it’s nothing. Eventually, he jerks his head at me and I follow him up the cliff path again.

We’re dangerously close to Skarmouth for me to be lunging a  _ capall _ for the first time. If I lose control, there’s no telling what Corr will do.

Sean keeps walking along the line of the cliffs, away from the town. We don’t speak. Once he’s satisfied that we’re far enough away, Sean begins to take his shirt off. I avert my eyes, but I don’t close them or turn my back, because I’ll need to halter Corr as soon as he shifts.

As soon as I see red at the edge of my vision, I pull the halter from my shoulder and start toward Corr.

He stands perfectly still, facing the sea. I wonder how much control Sean has over Corr’s actions, or if he simply disappears when he shifts. Maybe he’s indifferent to Corr’s actions. Maybe they are the same being, in which case I most certainly should not be trusting him.

I slip the halter up onto his nose and then over his ears, which twitch when I touch them. His left eye, the one I’m closest to, is thinner and more slanted than Dove’s. It’s unnerving.

To start, I clip on a normal lead rope instead of a lunge line, because I don’t trust him yet, and I have more of a chance of controlling him when he isn’t thirty feet away. We walk in circles for a long time, dark shapes against the predawn sky, and I’m careful, because Corr isn’t a regular horse and he certainly isn’t Dove.

But I’m not careful enough.

At one point, I try to readjust my grip on the lead rope just as the wind throws the salty ocean air in our faces. Corr’s nostrils flair and he rears, screaming for the sea.

The lead rope pulls tight around the palm of my right hand.

I’m stuck.

Corr’s front hooves drop to the cliff grass. My hand is still caught. He lunges for the edge of the cliff, and beyond that, the sea, and I’m pulled along behind him, heels catching in the dirt. The lead rope bites into my skin; it’s too tight. I’ll never get free of it before he smashes us into the beach below. He’s too big for me to stop with force.

Instead, I reach up with my free hand and twist his ear back, hard, like I would if Dove tried to run away from me.

Miraculously, Corr stops.

My hand is throbbing in time with my heartbeat, and I’m breathing hard. It only took a few seconds, but I’m shaking. I lean my head against his massive shoulder and say, quietly, because it’s only the second day but I’m terrified I can’t do this after all, “Please, I need to win. Please, Corr.”

Corr’s great muscles shudder at my touch, and I can still smell the sea, but he remains still.

Later, after I’ve untangled my hand and lunged Corr and he has shifted back into Sean, something is different. Sean takes my hand in both of his to look at the torn skin, but he seems wary, now. Still sharp — I’m starting to think everything about Sean is sharp in one way or another — but he’s holding himself tightly, and away from me.

The sun is just beginning to rise in earnest when he asks, “how did you know to do that?”

“Do what?”

Sean just looks at me. The weak, early morning light throws most of his face into shadow. He doesn’t say anything else.

*

The days leading up to the Festival follow a similar pattern. Sean and I meet before dawn, when the sea is too high for anyone else to be there. I ride Corr. We part ways: Sean goes to do whatever it is he does; I go home and ride Dove and paint teapots and try not to think about the shrinking contents of our pantry.

Anytime we’re at the house it’s uncomfortably tense, because Finn is irritable over my riding a  _ capall _ , and Dove is irritable over not being ridden as often as usual, and I’m irritable over  _ them _ being irritable, as well as the fact that Gabe hasn’t been home in days.

The morning of the Festival, I come home a little after sunrise to a large black car in the yard.

Immediately, my heart seizes, because what if something happened to Finn? Or Gabe? But there’s no one in the car, and I can see someone moving in the kitchen through the window, so I take a deep breath and ease open the door.

Finn is at the sink, tension in every part of his lanky body, and Benjamin Malvern is seated at our table, an official piece of paper before him. 

I close the door behind me, very carefully. Finn doesn’t turn around. I can’t see his hands on the counter, which means he’s probably pinching himself. It hurts to see him like this, but I can’t do anything to help him until Benjamin Malvern is out of our house.

Malvern is looking at me, a vague, harmless smile on his wrinkled face. I’m not fooled.

“You must be Kate,” he says.

I don’t want to say anything to a man who could ruin the life of anyone on this island in the span of a day, but I have to. “How can I help you?”

Malvern takes a moment to smooth out his tie. On anyone else, it would be a nervous tic, but Malvern has no reason to be nervous. I can’t shake the idea that he’s savoring this moment, though I have no proof of it. Finn is still facing the sink.

“Miss Connolly. I was just telling your brother that I am here to evict you.”

I very deliberately do not take my eyes off of Finn, who hunches further in on himself. He looks so small.

“All due respect, Mr. Malvern,” I say. I feel as though there is a  _ capall _ wreaking havoc in my chest. “But you had no right to talk to my brother without Gabe or myself present.”

Malvern makes an ugly noise in the back of his throat. “Miss Connolly, I own this house, and Finn is of age. Neither you nor Gabriel Connolly were present when I arrived and frankly, I have more important things to do with my time than wait for you.”

More important things than destroying our lives. Of course.

I look at him. Malvern’s eyes are sharp and unpitying.

“Give me two weeks,” I say.

His eyebrows go up. “You’re riding? Not on that pony out front. You’ll never stand a chance.”

I don’t correct him about Dove. Instead, I think about earlier this morning, Corr flying across the sand with my perched on his back, the feeling of the wind in my hair and Corr’s mane against my fingers.

I say, “I have a good feeling about my odds.”

Malvern stares at me. I hold my breath. It’s so quiet in our kitchen I can almost hear my heartbeat.

“So be it.” Malvern stands from the table and walks to where I still stand by the door. He leaves the paper where it is. I glance at it briefly, and my heart sinks at the number there. It’s not even close to the full amount for the house, but it’s far more than we can afford, especially with Gabe leaving.

And that makes me stop, my breath catching in my throat, because all I can wonder is,  _ does Gabe know about this? _

Malvern pauses by my side. He’s taller than me and broader, even in his old age, but I don’t break eye contact. “You have two weeks, Miss Connolly, and then I want you and your brothers out. If you survive.”

I open the door and hold it until he leaves. I close the door behind him with the sort of loud finality that would’ve had Mum reprimanding me, but I can’t bring myself to care. 

“Finn?” I ask. He doesn’t move. I walk up beside him and pull his hands off of his arms. At least he has a sweater on, so the bruises won’t be as bad as they could be. It’s a cold comfort. “Finn, I’m sorry.”

He turns his head in my direction and it hurts to see how young and afraid he is, how wide his eyes are. Gabe isn’t even gone yet and I’m already letting Finn down.

His voice is small when he asks, “What are we going to do, Puck?”

He looks so much like Dad, in a way Gabe never has, since his hair comes straight from Mum. But Dad never looked this lost, at least not where us kids could ever see him. I want to bundle Finn up in a blanket and make sure the world outside of this house never touches him. It’s too late for that though. 

I was wrong, before. It took much less than a day for Malvern to ruin us.

I think of Corr again, and the way Sean looked at me with morning, with something almost like respect. I tell him, “I’m going to win.”

**Author's Note:**

> I started this back in January of 2017, and I'm glad at least part of it can finally see the light of day, nearly three years later. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> Read on,  
> Skats


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